Guardian Angel
by Liz Night
Summary: Sherlock did die when he jumped off that roof, but he didn't know there was a guardian angel always watching over him. Johnlock. A series of oneshots.
1. Chapter 1

His Guardian Angel.

John watched as his best friend plummeted from the edge of the roof. He pushed himself to run, even as he saw Sherlock strike the ground and heard the imagined crunch of bone breaking.

He toppled over as a passing cyclist hit him. He slowly stood, ears ringing, and staggered the rest of the way. People were already gathered around Sherlock, blocking his way.

Blood was pooling beneath Sherlock's head, his life leaking onto the pavement. John forced his way through, repeatedly saying that he was a doctor and _his friend._

Finally, John reached Sherlock's side. He took his hand, pressing his fingers to his pulse point, and felt nothing! He closed his eyes, sorrow freezing his own heart.

'_Please,'_ he silently pled. _'Let whatever grace I possess pass to him!'_

But the skin beneath his fingers did not move. Did not warm. Did not change. Somebody pulled him away from the dying man who _needed _him and Sherlock, body broken and limp, was moved to a stretcher and taken away.

John stared at the blood staining the concrete and a sob caught in his throat.

"I failed."

oOoOo

Days later, John sat in Mycroft's car, staring out the window as they slowly drove to the graveyard.

He didn't know why he was still there. He'd failed his mission. He should have already been called back.

Mrs Hudson placed a hand on his knee and squeezed. He moved his own hand, from the opposite elbow, and placed it over hers and squeezed. She did not have herself to blame for Sherlock's death, but she felt almost as much grief as John did.

Mycroft sat on Mrs Hudson's other side. He seemed nearly lost and helpless without his brother. He only made John feel worse for failing his mission. Especially when the man had desperately begged for John to say that he had somehow saved his brother. Mycroft knew there was something different about the doctor, just not what.

The car came to a stop and John opened his door, stepping out. He helped Mrs Hudson out and she had her arm through his as they walked to the grave that had very recently been filled. Mycroft followed silently behind. No one else had been to Sherlock's funeral. Greg had said the Yard had refused to allow him to attend. Molly had been hidden in her flat since she had found out.

Sherlock's brother said not a word as he stood at Sherlock's grave. His face twisted in anger as he stared down at the words before him. The usually stoic man gripped his hands into fists. Watching, John realized what Mycroft was feeling. He was angry at his brother for dying. The man turned and swiftly returned to the car.

John and Mrs Hudson spoke quietly and she too eventually left him alone with the block of marble. He found himself unable to speak, throat clogged with apologies, confessions, and tears. He rested his hand on the cold stone and prayed once more, begging to have his friend back.

oOoOo

Every day since Sherlock had died, John had sat in his chair, waiting, watching. Either he would be called up or Sherlock would return. Hopefully. The only other time he'd left was for the funeral and he'd quickly returned to be disappointed that there had been no change.

The night after the funeral, John slumped in his chair, unwilling to move. He'd not felt so weary since he himself had returned. Almost against his will, he soon found himself slumbering.

He was awoken by the very solid weight that seemed to fall on him, the warm bare skin that pressed against him, and the tickle of feathers. John jerked awake and gazed with wonder at the occupant of his lap.

Sherlock Holmes had returned. He lay, curled up in John's lap, unconscious. He was completely naked, skin nearly translucent. Solid black wings sprung from his back, endlessly twitching as their owner slept.

John carefully moved his hand to touch the pale man's cheek, to prove to himself that he was real, but Sherlock jolted awake, hand trapping John's wrist before he could touch him.

"Sorry that I'm late."

Both men looked up from staring at each other and saw the man dressed in an immaculate cream suit in the middle of the room. The glowing man. With wings.

"Hello again, John," the angel spoke, voice seeming like light itself. "I believe you know why I'm here."

John nodded, absently clutching a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, but not giving him any more than that of his attention. "My petition was granted."

Sherlock looked back at John in disbelief, but then the man that was defying all logic by existing began to speak again.

"It wasn't just your plea, Guardian," the angel said, seating himself in Sherlock's chair. "The human race is better off with Sherlock Holmes alive. It is why you were saved and sent back. Without you, he is aimless."

Even as Sherlock opened his mouth, he felt John's hand dig into his shoulder. He glanced up and saw John shake his head minutely.

"Thank you, Andrew," John said. "I will instruct him in our ways."

"See that you do," Andrew nodded. He looked down his long nose at Sherlock. "You will be discreet about our existence, fledgling."

"He will," John answered for him quickly, so that Sherlock wouldn't.

Andrew nodded before disappearing as fast as he had appeared. John sighed, relieved the angel was gone.

"John?"

"That was Andrew, the archangel who directs guardian angels," John informed him. "That's what I am. And now, what you are."

"An angel?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "I don't even believe in-"

"Did you see anything while you were dead?" John interrupted, voice cracking on the final word. "Did you speak to anyone?"

Sherlock blinked. He had spoken to some…thing. It had had a voice, but no body. And it had told him to go back to John. "Yes," he said softly.

John nodded. "I know, because that happened to me as well. When I was shot in Afghanistan, I died. They changed me into an angel and told me to watch for the man who would need me. And then you came along."

Sherlock shivered and snuggled closer to John's body. "Why am I so cold?" he whispered.

"Well, you're naked," John replied, holding him. "But it's also because you just came back. Your body wasn't working for three days. Hold on a second."

John stood, Sherlock still cradled in his arms. Sherlock flailed, wings flapping from the unexpected move.

"Sherlock! Hold still!" John said roughly, holding him tighter. Sherlock stilled slowly and John moved them to Sherlock's room. He lay the new angel on the bed and pulled the comforter over him.

"How?"

John sat on the bed beside his friend. "Angels are much stronger than humans. And you're not exactly heavy."

Sherlock nodded, mind already analysing what that meant. One of his feathers caught his eye. He carefully pulled it from the blanket and twisted it between his fingers.

"Are we capable of flight?" he asked.

John nodded. "Yours aren't yet, but you just returned. The muscles must be strengthened."

"And the colours of the feathers…Do they have any meaning?"

John blinked. "Sherlock, are you asking if black feathers make you evil?"

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes intense. "Do they?"

"No," John said vehemently. "We're finishing our first lives. We're not fully angels yet. After we 'die,' they'll make us full angels, depending on how we lived."

"So we can die?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Sherlock, go to sleep. We'll talk when you wake up."

Sherlock fought it, but fell asleep quickly. It didn't surprise John, who remembered those absent days he'd spent in a desert hospital recovering from both being injured and transforming into an angel. With a last stroke of the soft ebony feathers, John stood. It was time to offer some explanation to the one human who could help them. God, he hated talking to Mycroft!

He absently smiled, though. The hurt he had been partly responsible for to the Holmes family would be healed. Sherlock was back.

* * *

Okay! Just got a Tumblr! For news on updates and a lot of random things (including reblogged Johnlock fanart) come find me. I use the same name there and the title of the blog is I'm Annoying My Roommate. Don't forget to review and maybe come find me so that I won't be alone tumblin'!


	2. Chapter 2

His Guardian Angel: Telling Mycroft.

"Mycroft—Ugh!—you don't need to come! He's okay!" John said, but was answered by Mycroft hanging up.

He scrubbed his hand across his face. This was just what he needed. He stood and went back to the door of Sherlock's room. The dark haired man was still sleeping soundly. He watched him silently.

He was surprised when there were steps on the stairs. John turned as Mycroft entered the kitchen. He quietly shut Sherlock's door and motioned to the sitting room. They sat down and stared at each other. John had no doubt that Mycroft was deducing everything from him.

"He's alive?"

John nodded and the man's shoulders slumped in relief. "But there's something you should know—"

"You have something to do with his return," Mycroft observed. "I'd say you knew that he was coming back, but you're not a very good actor, Dr Watson. So how are you involved?"

John opened his mouth to explain when Sherlock's door opened.

"John?" Sherlock called, rubbing his eyes sleepily. His wings rested close to his body to keep him warm.

John looked over at Mycroft. The man's eyes were wide and his face pale. He didn't know if he should worry about the man having a heart attack. "Christ," he muttered as he dropped his head into his hands. At least he could be thankful that Sherlock had pulled on pyjama bottoms.

"I had planned to tell you differently, Mycroft," John said, words muffled by his hands. He looked up. "We're angels."

Mycroft turned his head back to John. (John considered going to get his stethoscope.) "Angels?"

Sherlock sat on the arm of John's chair. The blonde absently batted feathers from his face.

"Yes, Mycroft, angels," Sherlock said. "As if the wings weren't indicative of that."

"Sherlock, do shut up," John muttered and, surprisingly, the man listened. "The point of telling you, Mycroft, was that we need help explaining how Sherlock is alive, preferably not a feathery reason."

Mycroft slowly began getting his colour back. "I believe I can arrange that."

"Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted with an anxious look down at John. "There were three snipers watching—"

They have been identified and are being taken care of at this very moment," Mycroft replied. "They will not be a threat for much longer."

Sherlock nodded.

"Dr Watson, you said that you both are angels, but you do not have wings? Am I to take that to mean that they can be hidden?" Mycroft noted.

John nodded. "I'd prefer not to show you quite yet," he glanced up at Sherlock and the back of his head bumped one of Sherlock's wings. "I believe you have enough to come to terms with Sherlock."

Mycroft nodded and stood. "You've given me a lot of work to do, Dr Watson."

John stood as well. "It's better than the alternative."

Mycroft nodded and stepped to his brother's side. "I am glad that you are still with us, brother."

Sherlock blinked up at his brother, seemingly confused. Then he raised his hand and Mycroft smiled as they shook. Mycroft quickly left.

John stared at Sherlock, frankly shocked to witness the display of brotherly love between the two men that had once called each other their 'arch enemies.'

Sherlock's wings flapped, irritated from John's gawking. "If you're done imitating a fish, I'm hungry."

John shut his mouth quickly and shook his head before going to the kitchen. Sherlock followed and sat at the table, watching John work.

It was as John set the kettle to boil that he remembered what his flatmate had asked Mycroft. "Sherlock, what were those snipers watching?"

He glanced over to see Sherlock cover a yawn. "Think, John."

John looked back at the kettle and suppressed a sigh of irritation. "Sherlock, can't you just—"

"John."

He almost growled, but did as he was asked (told). Of course, if he wasn't going to tell him, Sherlock would just have to listen to John think it through.

"Okay, three snipers watching something—three different things," John mused aloud.

"Good, John," Sherlock muttered.

"They would have to be important to you. A sniper means that their living, probably human. So three important people," John paused as the tea began to boil. He poured it into two mugs. "Mycroft would be surrounded by his people, so, even if the two of you were closer, he would be safe. So it's not him. So that leaves Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and myself. Now Moriarty, who I have no doubt arranged the assassins, would have to know who was important to you. Mrs Hudson and Myself are obvious, so that leaves Lestrade or Molly. When we met Moriarty that first time, you were rude to Molly, so that most likely leaves her out."

"Mhmm," Sherlock murmured his agreement.

"So three killers watching us…Sherlock, was that why you jumped? To keep us safe?" John turned, but stopped at what he saw.

Sherlock was asleep once more, slumped over the table. He looked much more young and innocent than he did when he was awake.

John smiled softly, watching his flatmate begin to snore. He turned and shut off the kettle. Sherlock wouldn't want food for a while. He put away the food stuff he had already taken out.

Finally, when he heard a particularly loud snore, John turned back to Sherlock. He carefully lifted him from the chair and moved smoothly to Sherlock's room.

"John?" the mostly asleep man whispered and snuggled closer to John. "Can I have pancakes with strawberries?"

"Of course, Sherlock," John whispered just as quietly. He lay the men in his bed and he snuffled against his pillow.

"Will you be here when I wake?" Sherlock asked with a yawn.

"Always, Sherlock," John said and bent to kiss his brow. He moved only slightly away to speak into his ear. "After all, I _am_ your guardian angel."


End file.
